


The Ring Cycle

by OhAine



Series: Simple Chemistry [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5 times Sherlock faked it +1 time he didn't, 5+1 Things, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Humour, It's for a case Molly!, Marriage Proposal, Mild Language, One Shot, Sherlolly - Freeform, Snark, mollock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 03:16:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14886602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhAine/pseuds/OhAine
Summary: Sherlock really should be better at proposing, after all, he's had quite a bit of practice.





	The Ring Cycle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Limaro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Limaro/gifts).



> I've been reliably informed that this fic has the same nutritional value as bubblegum. I'm okay with that.
> 
> Not beta'd, all mistakes are mine. Much love and thanks to likingthistoomuch who encouraged me to get off my ass and post something.
> 
> This is the first in a series of gift works for readers that I've always meant to thank but never have, starting (in no particular order) with Limaro. Thank you m'dear, for always being there.

 

**1.**

 

“Women don’t actually faint when proposed to, Sherlock,” Molly hissed from the corner of her mouth as the very snotty (snooty?) waiter led them to their table.

“Yes they do,” he snorted. 

“Janine doesn’t count, you tit.” 

Sherlock tipped his head in acknowledgement, a little grin tugging at one corner of his mouth. He put his arm around her and pulled her closer so that only she might hear, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, “The veracity of that statement can’t be denied.”

 _Shit._  Her skin had broken out into goose bumps.  Molly begged whatever deity might be listening that he wouldn’t notice.

“Then what exactly is it you expect me to do?”

When the waiter (Molly had decided on snooty) had seated them both, Sherlock half whispered, “It’s very simple. When I,” here he crooked his fingers into air quotes with a very distasteful look on his face, “ _pop the question_ , I need you to pretend that you’re overcome with emotion and blackout or some such nonsense. Then, while you’re pretending to be unconscious on the floor, have a feel around under the table for a trap door. There  _has_  to be one. It’s the only explanation for Don Ricoletti’s firearm disappearing when he was arrested here three weeks ago. We have to find it. Without that gun the Met’s case against him is going to collapse.”

“Much like the women you propose to,” Molly deadpanned. 

“Quite,” he smirked again in that way he had that was far sexier than it had a right to be, slipping out of his seat and on to his knee. Sherlock’s face had gone all soft and dreamy, he was making puppy eyes at her and smiling crookedly.

Molly’s mouth went dry.

“My angel,” he simpered, hamming it up. “My darling. Sweetest Molly. Light of my life.” From his pocket he produced a small black velvet box, and she wondered if it was the same one he’d used on his last engagement-for-a-case fiancée. “Would you make my existence complete and do me the honour of becoming my wife?”

Molly found, in the end, that with the man you love on bended knee before you holding a diamond ring in his hand, it was far easier to melt away than she would ever have imagined.

 

**2.**

 

“This will never work.”

“You always say that,” Sherlock scowled.

“I never say that.”

“It’s always heavily implied.” Sherlock man-handled her into the ladies loo, just off the corridor leading to the admissions  desk of the maternity ward and began tugging at her brand new banana print cardi.

“I did my obstetrics rotation here, someone will recognise me.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He unceremoniously shoved the space hopper he’d been carrying under her cardigan, stretching the wool this way and that, effectively ruining it forever.  _She wasn’t too sure that it was unintentional either._

“By the time they figure out that all you’ve got under that jumper – it’s frankly hideous, by the way, a new sartorial low for you – is an orange inflatable and a bit of bloating from last night’s curry I’ll have broken into Dr Elwood’s office and recovered the forged adoption papers. In the meantime, just try to sell the labouring mother act, okay?”

Molly smoothed her palms over her rubber baby. “If I’m really committing to the part I should put a going out of business sign over my va-jay-jay,” she joked. “This thing is going to blow out the whole region when I give birth. Junior’s inherited your ginormous head.”

She expected a smart-arse come back implying that trade had been dropping off anyway, when it didn’t come she looked up at him, questioning.

In the mirror over the row of sinks she caught sight of Sherlock watching her with the oddest expression ghosting over his face. Their reflected eyes met for the briefest of moments and something that she didn’t understand passed between them and then was gone.

Sherlock coughed to clear his throat. The tips of his ears turning red, he rushed outside only to return within seconds with a wheelchair.

“You ready?” He asked, a tiny bit subdued.

“As I’ll ever be.” Molly flopped into the chair, adjusting the blob beneath her cardigan so that the antennae didn’t poke through the gaps between buttons.

“Right,” he said, and she could practically hear the mischievous smile return to his voice.

Sherlock propelled her through the doors and began half shouting, half crying, “Help! Help! My wife’s in labour.”

A distant part of her, one she didn’t care to examine right that second, was glad she was sitting down when he said those words.

 

**3.**

 

Sherlock was panicking, and Sherlock never panicked. 

“Fuck,” he shouted over the din of the freshly tripped alarm. 

The whole night was proving to be a disaster from beginning to end. Lord Heseltine’s Westminster office had all sorts of alarms and locks that Sherlock hadn’t made provision for, and when they finally found the damn wall safe (behind a portrait of Her Majesty, who, strangely, Sherlock didn’t seem to recognise) it had already been emptied of the stolen submarine plans.

Molly pulled off the black beanie that had been hiding her hair, letting it fall in a wave over one shoulder. She had decided that for her first Breaking and Entering she’d go with a traditional all black ensemble, gratified that Sherlock had chosen to do the same. Not that it mattered now, but still, at least they would look co-ordinated in their first joint set of mug shots. 

Already she could hear security guards running toward them, knowing that half of New Scotland Yard wouldn’t be far behind. “What do we do?”

“We need to buy time. Strip,” he said, deadly serious.

“What?!”

“I. Said. Strip.” He’d already begun peeling his own clothes away and was down to his (very tight) underpants before Molly caught the gist of where he was going with this. 

Sherlock swept the papers and folders that covered the top of the treasonous Lord’s desk on to the floor and lifted Molly up. Four hands being (theoretically) more efficient than two, he tugged her trousers down as she cast her sweater off toward the ceiling.

From places unseen he produced a set of wedding bands, pushing the first on to his own hand, the second on to hers.

Molly wrinkled her nose, “Why on earth are you carrying around rings?”

“Contingency.”

She frowned. “Right.”

“Well, we do this a lot. Adding props gives an air of authenticity to the scene.”

Nothing had been worn on that finger for years, not since Tom, and now it was Sherlock who had placed something there. Oh, and didn’t that feel strange? 

Something inside her chest simultaneously soared and plummeted.

“There are times when I truly despise you, you know that, right?”

“No you don’t. Now, pay attention. In about thirty seconds they’re going to burst through the door, so we need to get our stories straight.” Sherlock lay down on top of her and shoved his hand into her knickers, groping her backside enthusiastically. He didn’t even blush. “You’re my naughty little wife, whose fantasy has always been to be taken on top of her boss’s desk. And I’m the very obliging husband who’ll do anything to please you. Got it? By the time they find out you’re not Heseltine’s secretary, I’ll have been able to get hold of Mycroft.”

Against her skin she felt the cold metal he wore around his finger. It made her suddenly think of things she’d been trying to forget for a very long time. 

“Fine,” she answered sharply, barely managing to get a word in before Sherlock shoved his tongue down her throat and started dry humping her right there in front of at least four heavily armed men.

~

_Maybe it was the guns, she later mused, or perhaps it was the danger. But as she sat in the holding cell waiting to be freed by one Holmes or another, Molly couldn’t help but wonder what had caused Sherlock to become so aroused when they kissed._

 

**4.**

 

“Molly, I need—”

She rolled her eyes and shoved the gold band on her ring finger before he could even finish the sentence.

 

**5.**

 

The house was beautiful, there was no denying it: a sprawling garden that rolled down toward the sea. Apple trees. Cornish stone walls. Bluebells lined the winding drive. The front porch looked exactly like the one on the house in the Lake District where her family used to holiday when she was a child. Inside there were lime rendered walls, oak beams, and a kitchen that made her own very nice one look like a hovel. From the sash windows she could see an old rope swing swaying lazily from a cherry blossom that had just come to life in a riot of joyous pink flowers.

This time he hadn’t bothered to tell her what the case was, and Molly hadn’t bothered to ask. She’d simply slipped the band on her finger and gotten into the cab with him.

Odd, she thought, how heavy the narrow band felt, how very aware of it she was.

The estate agent had trailed behind them from room to room. And perhaps sensing that a sale might be about to slip through her fingers, she said to Sherlock, “It’s a perfect home for a young family. Lots of room to grow in to. Plenty of outside space for little ones to play. There’s even a Granny flat above the garage for when the grandparents visit. Do you and your wife have children Mr Holmes?”

Molly froze, her breath held waiting for his answer.

For the longest time he hesitated, then said, a touch of something wistful in his voice, “No. Not yet.”

Those words, spoken that way, caused something in her to break. 

It was all well and good acting a part, but nothing about this felt like they were playing anymore. Her heart just couldn’t take it.

“I’m sorry,” she said pushing past a stunned Sherlock and the agent, “I can’t— I just can’t.”

 

**+1**

 

“You see the bruising, here and here,” Lestrade pointed with a nitrile covered finger at the small round marks either side of Sally Johnston’s throat.

Molly hummed a yes, already making mental notes about the woman on her table. Despite the fact that Greg had dragged her out of bed at an ungodly hour and that her body was still not quite willing to accept that she wasn’t going to let it have any more sleep that morning, her mind was switching on and already about two steps ahead of the rest of her.

“We think it might have been strangulation. Potentially a domestic situation. I’m liking the boyfriend for it, but we can only ‘old him for another twelve hours or so without charging him. He’s not a local—”

“So a flight risk,” Molly finished. She knew the drill: get enough to hold the suspect, get it fast and make no mistakes. “Got it. I’ll re organise my list, get a few of the second years in to give me a hand. Should be able to email preliminary results within a few hours. I’ll have a full report with bloods by two, three at the latest.

Greg took her sweet face in his hands and kissed her forehead. “You’re the best.”

Molly scrunched up her nose, but smiled and swatted him away. “Okay. Yes. I know.”

“No seriously. I owe you one. If you ever need a favour—”

“Coffee,” she grinned, stifling a yawn. “Espresso, if you can manage to get the vending machine Gods to be kind.”

Greg winked, already skipping off toward the door. “I’ll do one better. I’ll grab us one from the Nero down the street. Couple of chocolate croissants too, seein’ as it’s nearly breakfast time.”

~

The recently departed Miss Johnston was going to be a royal pain in the backside.

Nothing about her other than those eight little round bruises suggested any kind of assault: no defensive wounds, no blood or skin under her nails (although oddly, there were traces of what looked like paint and fine glass – she’d have to get it off to the lab to be sure).

_Hmm._

One of the dumb-arse students she’d sent for had begun laying out a tray of instruments (incorrectly, she noted, Stamford was definitely going to get an earful about slipping standards when she had time to haul him over the coals) while another was hovering at her elbow with a pallor that matched almost exactly the shade of green of her scrubs. A third was making cow eyes at Lestrade, who stood at Molly’s shoulder offering the small paper cup that was going to save the lives of everyone in the room.

No one even noticed they’d been joined by a sixth.

“I need you, Molly Hooper,” were the first words that she had heard from Sherlock in almost a week. 

She hadn’t seen him, hadn’t wanted to, not since that last case. Truth be told she’d felt like a coward for avoiding his calls and texts. He’d even shown up at her house once or twice but she’d ended up sneaking out the back door just to avoid having the, what she knew would be, uncomfortable conversation about why she’d bolted from the lovely house that would never be hers. Worse still was the nagging voice in her head that said he might not have even noticed. 

“Busy, Sherlock,” she muttered from behind her visor, chucking a kidney or two on to the scales for emphasis.

“And that’s relevant how?”

Two of the dumb-arses tittered, the third rolled his eyes so hard only the whites were visible.

She scowled. “I suppose to you it isn’t. But unless you’re here to tell me that Jim Moriarty has risen from the dead again, I really do have better things to do. So come on, out with it, what is it you want?”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, looking at her as though he was a bit frightened (or turned on by the blood spatters on her gown, it was always hard to tell with him to be honest). “What? Here?”

Molly nodded her head, tossing the liver in with the kidneys. “Knew you’d get there eventually.”  

“Fine,” he said drawing himself up to full height, his jaw set tight. “I would like you to be my wife.”

As Molly suspected. He hadn’t even noticed how upset she’d been last time, and now here he was again, expecting her to drop everything at a moment’s notice and act like nothing had happened. “I’m in the middle of a post mortem. Whatever bit of trouble it is that you fancy getting in to will have to be accomplished with someone else as your eventual co-defendant. Try Mary Watson. She has her own B and E gear, she’s better than me with a gun too.”

“While both of those are admirable qualities in a wife,” he stared at her from beneath a fringe full of curls, those pale eyes narrowing, “she is already spoken for.”

“John won’t mind,” Molly frowned, trying to remember if she’d actually finished her chocolate croissant or whether that bit of flaky pastry in Sally’s abdominal cavity was a clue to her untimely demise.

“He might not,” Sherlock sounded genuinely confused, “but I certainly do.”

“Of for God’s sake,” Lestrade piped up. “If you’re in need of a wife for a case I’ll give DI Hopkins a call. I can ‘ave ‘er at your flat in half an hour if you’ll just piss off and let Molly get on with it.”

Everyone in the room turned to look as Sherlock took two steps toward Lestrade and glared down his nose at him. “It’s not for a case.”

“Course it is. Why else would you—  _Oh_ ,” the penny dropped. “ _OH!_ ”

Sherlock looked back at Molly, while Greg’s  _Oh_  lingered in the air between them all. “Molly—?” he asked tentatively.

She’d turned white as a ghost. Pointing at the body, she managed to splatter one of the students with entrails. “Sally Johnston—”

“—Was changing a bedroom lightbulb when her set of faux pearls caught on the top of her wardrobe. She tried to free herself but fell, and the necklace held long enough to strangle her to death before breaking.” Sherlock spun back toward Lestrade, “Check under her bed for loose beads and fragments of broken glass,” he turned back to Molly, who looked exactly like a stunned owl but held eye contact with him all the same. “Whether you’re being intentionally obtuse or not, I haven’t yet decided. I’ve been trying to tell you for days – thanks for not answering your phone and for hiding in your garden shed every time I came by in person by the way, that  _reallllyyyy_  makes a man feel wanted – that the house I took you to see was nothing to do with a case. It was to do with us. And our future. But as you seem hell bent on ignoring me you leave me with no other alternative but to declare myself in front of Larry, Curly and Mo,” he waved a hand vaguely in the direction of her students. His chest was heaving a bit and his cheeks had gone pink, from his pocket he took a small jewellers’ box that looked completely unfamiliar, and was definitely not one of his props. “I’ve been dropping hints for months, but it seems you don’t do subtlety. So. As it needs it to be explicitly stated, Molly Hooper, will you—”

“Don’t!” She held up two bloody hands. “Stop. If you’re serious—”

“I am,” he smiled at her, lopsided and soft, cheeks dimpling. Lord he looked scrummy when his eyes lit up that way, crinkling at the corners.

“—then let me finish this first and we can go somewhere to talk.”

“What’s wrong with now?”

Molly pointed her bone saw in the direction of the body she’d been hacking into. “Hardly a suitable setting.”

“Right, fine,” Sherlock grinned. “But be as quick as you can, we’re on something of a schedule. There’s a wedding chapel in Gretna that’s under investigation for money laundering. Thought we might kill two birds with one stone.”

Molly rolled her eyes. “You’re making one hell of an assumption. I might not say yes.”

 _“Welllll,”_  said Sherlock, head bobbing from side to side as he weighed it up, his grin getting wider, “in my defence, you have every other time I’ve proposed.”

~

_Meanwhile, at The Diogenes Club…_

Mycroft’s phone pinged with a text from Anthea. He smiled to himself at first, but that soon faded when he read what his assistant had to say about  _brother dear_.

He liked Miss Hooper, he really did, and he was happy for them. But it seemed as though he was going to have to explain to the happy couple that in order to expedite Molly’s security clearance for project Lazarus, he had pushed some paper, cut some red tape and that the official record showed they’d been legally Mr and Mrs Holmes for seven years now. 

And Mycroft knew,  _just knew_ , Sherlock was going to be churlish when he found out.

 


End file.
